Mikhail

24 (R)

The doctor had done a quick check up and stitched up the deep wound on my calf.

The woman from before had returned with clothes, ones of her own since shops weren't open this late even for Mogilevich's men.

Instead of processing the kind doctor's results and advice, my thoughts remained occupied with Vinnie's and my father's reactions.

Even with my father's increased trust in me and my decisions, my request to remain with Mikhail wasn't a smart or loyal one, and left my mind clouded in painful guilt. If Vinnie had been upset with me before, he was now furious.

James was dead, Anastasia traumatised, and I chose not to go home in order to stay with an enemy.

My heart ached, not for the disappointment displayed by those closest to me, but with a yearn to escape everything for just one night, to exist in a somewhat carefree and secure space.

I assured myself this was why I felt incredible relief to be with Mikhail rather than my family. That, or I was coming off strong drugs and exhausted after the ordeal with Julio.

Neither option calmed my rational mind.

So there I was, wearing an uncomfortably oversized and sheer tee shirt with sweatpants clinging against my skin, situated between Mikhail the ferocious and Bean.

The God of sex had offered me dinner, but I hadn't been hungry. Instead I watched him enjoy a serving of beef stroganoff, focused on the football match turned on to fill the silence.

For a second I let myself feel and be normal, because the atmosphere called for such. Everything was warm, dim and relaxing.

For a moment I wasn't the daughter of Philip Wellesley and he wasn't Peter Mogilevich's right-hand-man.

"It's rude to stare, kukolka," he gruffed out, not having had to glance over to know I was fixated on the way he chewed his food.

I felt crazy finding such a mundane thing so arousing.

I smiled shyly, resting my side against the backrest of the couch.

I decided he had to get better furniture, with everything here too simplistic and modern, cold and bland.

Like a teenager with a crush I rested my chin against the palm of my hand and continued to observe his side profile.

"What did you say to Wellesley?" I wondered lightly, knowing my father would surely inform me of it once I returned home.

"It isn't important," he murmured dismissively, interest piquing at whatever was happening on the screen of his television.

He muttered out a distasteful Russian curse, and I heard the announcers celebrating a goal.

"Was it Mogilevich's idea to save me?"

His dark brows pulled down, but his attention remained on the match. "No. Mine."

"Oh."

Bean whined out, reminding me to keep petting him. I did, now frowning at the man by me.

He had once more gone against Mogilevich and acted on his own accord. How he wasn't dead was beyond me. And to save an enemy, of all people? Mogilevich really was a terrible leader.

"Would you have preferred me to leave you?" He quirked a brow, finally meeting my troubled gaze.

His low voice only calmed and warmed me more, deliciously travelling down my body and gathering a ball of heat in my lower stomach.

"Why didn't you?" I challenged quietly, the unspoken words hanging between us heavily.

Maybe he cared for me.